CATACLYSMOS Book 1 Part 4: Perish Twice: A Post-Apocolyptic Serial Thriller

by Michael Lister

  —We’re not the only ones who would, Meleah says. But you’re right, it’s probably far fewer than Dad wants to think. Definitely fewer than it should be.

  He laughs.

  —So I’m the naive one of the group? he says.

  —You’ve always been the glass-half-full guy.

  —Guess I have, but . . . Extreme circumstances and situations bring out the extremes in us, sure, but they have to be in us to begin with.

  —You were a prison chaplain, she says. You know the extremes that are in us.

  —But think about them as a percentage of the population, he says. Was pretty small.

  —Yeah, under good circumstances in the richest nation on the planet, not the bleak, brutal world that exists now.

  12

  Up ahead. Figure standing in the road.

  Beyond him, about fifty feet back, a line of vehicles, all headed this way, all fleeing the direction they are traveling in.

  Meleah looks over at her dad, tears from the cold trickling down her rash-red cheeks.

  He nods and they continue.

  As they get closer, he motions for her to slow down a little and let him take the lead.

  —Keep an eye out behind us, he tells girls. And beside. Keep checking the woods.

  They’re both shivering so badly it’s difficult to distinguish their nods from their cold-induced movements.

  Got to find shelter. Got to get warm.

  When he’s within thirty feet or so of the man standing in the road, he can see that he’s dead.

  Frozen in mid-stride.

  Early twenties.

  Shorts. Flip flops. T-shirt.

  Frost covering his clothes and skin. Flakes of ice clinging to his eyelashes.

  How is he still standing?

  How is any of this happening?

  Good point.

  —Is he dead? Nancy asks. Frozen to death?

  —He’s dead, but he didn’t freeze to death. It’s cold but not nearly that cold. I think the temperature has nothing to do with what killed him or what’s keeping him up. But I really don’t know.

  —Are you sure he’s dead? Meleah says.

  —Pretty sure.

  She nods and they continue, making a wide berth around the man.

  The lane beside the line of cars is mostly empty and they travel down it slowly, eyeing the vehicles as they do.

  Cop car. Sideways across the highway. Road block. State trooper leaning in the window of the first car.

  Most of the vehicles have drivers and passengers in them. All sitting up, all appearing to be frozen—as if in a three-dimensional photograph. All dead.

  Lifeless eyes open.

  Expressions eerily animating their lifeless faces.

  No blood. No signs of violence.

  Bumper to bumper. As if the first car was put in park and held the line as the driver of each car behind died, releasing the brake, causing the vehicle to roll into the one in front of it.

  —How is this possible? Meleah asks.

  —No idea, Michael says.

  —It’s one of the most surreal things I’ve ever seen.

  —It’s creepy as fuck, Nancy says. I keep expecting them to come to life and jump at us.

  13

  Trudging on.

  Tromping along in the wet coldness, sleet swirling around them, slush on the gray ground.

  Pausing at every passing farmhouse. Respite from the damp frigidity, search for essential supplies. Canned food. Bottled water. Warm, dry clothes. Gas for the ATV.

  Between stops. Bitter. Bleak. Numbness.

  —Can we stop for the night at the next place? Meleah asks. Build a fire. Get dry and warm? Get some sleep?

  —Sure, he says. The very next one we come to.

  —Can’t come soon enough to suit me, Nancy says. I feel like I’ve got frostbite over my entire body.

  More vehicles. These abandoned.

  He turns the ignition of each one. Gets nothing but clicks in most cases. Gets nothing in others.

  More random objects in the road.

  Jukebox. Busted vanity with broken mirror. Metal shelving of a kind not dissimilar to what’s in his dad’s old hardware store. A Rebel flag raincoat.

  —You’re not even gonna see if it fits, are you? Meleah says.

  He shakes his head.

  She smiles.

  —Because of what’s on it? Nancy asks.

  He gives the slightest of nods, not slowing in the least.

  In the dreary distance a dingy mailbox at the end of a tree-lined dirt driveway.

  Meleah glances over at him and he nods.

  Unable to help herself, she speeds up a little, obviously anxious for something resembling dry warmth.

  He is able to keep up, but it’s an effort.

  The dirt drive leading up a quarter mile or more to the property is rock flecked and pocked with icy mud holes.

  Tiny white farm house, faded red barn beyond.

  Parking the ATV behind the house, they walk back around to the front and enter through the unlocked door.

  The pungent odor greeting them isn’t death but it’s nearly as unpleasant.

  The little living room they enter is empty save for a single leather recliner on one wall and an old wooden wardrobe on the other opposite it.

  —Wait here and let me take a look around, he says.

  9mm drawn, he moves out of the living room and into the kitchen.

  Small galley-style kitchen. Empty countertops and sink. Ancient GE appliances he doesn’t open.

  Short hallway. Tiny bathroom with a claw-foot tub and pedestal sink. Surprisingly big bedroom. King-sized unmade bed. Single nightstand, black Bible, and empty mason jar in the gathered dust atop it. Old house, no closets. Another old wooden wardrobe. And the singular smell of BO.

  How long does body odor linger? Maybe it’s baked in, as much a part of the place as the clapboards it’s constructed with. Or maybe someone is living here and is out foraging or in the barn working.

  Not worth the risk. Need to press on.

  —I know you don’t want to hear this, he yells to the girls, but unfortunately we’ve got to find another place. Sorry.

  A tremor running the length of him leads to a shudder when he gets no response.

  Gun not only drawn but cocked and ready, he heads back down the hallway, acutely aware of the creaks in the old boards this time.

  Odor stronger now.

  Behind him.

  Turning . . . too late.

  Barrel pressed to the base of his skull.

  —What’re y’all doin’ in my house?

  Foul breath even worse than the eye-watering musk and funk of the unbathed body.

  —We thought it was empty, Michael says. Abandoned. Didn’t realize anyone still lived here. We’ll leave right away.

  —The hell you will, he says. Not before you pay the piper.

  So stupid.

  You are. You’re too stupid to live.

  Why didn’t you leave the girls outside? Why didn’t you come in alone to check out things first? How could you be so fuckin’ careless with Meleah? Why rescue her at all if you were just going to get her hurt or killed in another way?

  He starts to say something, but stops to swipe at a bug bite at the back of his neck.

  The tips of his fingers graze the syringe, knocking it down to bounce on the hardwood floor.

  Strong jolt of something in his veins.

  Knees buckling.

  Loss of consciousness before he hits the floor.

  14

  Heavy headed.

  Blinking lids. Blurry vision.

  When he’s finally able to open his eyes, his head is thick, his mouth dry.

  Steel workers banging on a ship’s keel inside his skull.

  Stiff. Sore. Slow.

  Unable to move.

  Thoughts . . . coming . . . too . . . Brain’s not . . . working. Thoughts . . . not . . . coming . . . fast . . . enough.

  Bla
nk wall before him.

  Flicker of flame. Candlelight providing what little illumination there is.

  Hands cuffed behind him.

  Standing.

  Strapped to . . . something . . . What . . . is it?

  He tries to move his eyes around to see what . . .

  So sleepy.

  Let me just close my eyes for a few more . . .

  NO! Wake up. Now. Do you hear me? Wake the fuck up. NOW!

  He opens his eyes again. Blinks and licks his lips.

  His nose is itching but he is unable to scratch it, and it’s bugging the shit out of him.

  Focus. Figure out where you are, what’s going on.

  His cheek hurts like hell. Must have landed on the same spot he’d hit the tree near Lynn’s treehouse.

  Concentrate.

  He’s standing on something. A . . . small metal . . . He’s strapped to the same thing he’s standing on. What is it?

  He strains to look.

  Where’s Meleah? What happened to her and Nancy?

  It’s a . . . he’s standing on and strapped to a . . . large . . . hand truck. Like the ones he used to move refrigerators in his dad’s hardware and appliance store growing up.

  He’s on a hand truck facing the wall. Where?

  He tries to . . . It’s no good. He can’t see around him.

  You’re naked.

  In his slow thick-headedness he hadn’t noticed that he doesn’t have any clothes on.

  I’m naked. Wow. That’s not good.

  No, it’s not. It’s also not good it took you so long to realize it.

  A door opens behind him.

  Someone lumbers into the room.

  Based on the smell, it’s the same man from before.

  —Have a good nap, sweetheart?

  Grabbing the hand truck by the handles, the man jerks on it.

  Michael feels like he’s falling.

  Leaned back as if on an incline board, Michael is rolled across the room, through the door, into and down the dark hallway, and back to the living room.

  More candles here. Marginally brighter. But everything seen in the flickering gaslight glow of gold and brandy, as if they are trapped inside a giant whiskey bottle.

  After the man stands the hand truck beside the recliner, he comes out from behind it to give Michael his first look at him.

  He’s a big man. But fat too. Massive forearms. Meaty hands. Huge neck and head. Fat face, black rimmed with stubble and grime. Soiled jeans that barely fit and a John Deere T-shirt that leaves the bottom part of his pale, fat, hairy belly showing, his doughy flesh spilling out like a busted can of biscuits.

  Across the room the doors of the wardrobe are open. Gutted and retrofitted, the wardrobe is completely empty except for two sets of handcuffs and leg irons mounted to reinforcement boards inside.

  Meleah and Nancy, naked and shivering, are imprisoned within the torture closet the wardrobe has become. Tears streak down Meleah’s face. Next to her, Nancy’s face is a mask of rage.

  So pale. So skinny. So exposed. So very naked.

  They look so vulnerable, so pathetic and powerless.

  He’s so overwhelmed he feels the urge to vomit and burst into tears at the same time.

  Don’t you dare do either, damn you. You did this. You. Don’t make it worse. Don’t you dare.

  After making sure both girls are unharmed, he averts his gaze. Not only is it awkward and embarrassing for him to be naked in front of them, and them, him, but he finds it especially painful since from the moment she arrived in the world, Meleah has always been the most modest person he knows.

  He tries to say he’s sorry, but realizes there’s something in his mouth. A gag.

  A quick glance over at the girls confirms they’re gagged too.

  Still believe there are more good people than bad left in the world?

  The huge man’s labored breathing can be heard coming from the kitchen now. So can his rummaging through the drawers. Both of which halt abruptly.

  The enormous man appears in the entranceway of the living room. He is short and squat but has unusually long arms—a feature that adds to the simian quality of his mannerisms and movements. All of which are seen through the shifting flicker of candlelight.

  He trundles over to stand in front of the girls.

  With his huge, filthy hands he reaches toward them as they begin to squirm and protest, their muffled moans and groans and cries seeming to spur him on.

  Michael fights against his restraints and yells into his gag. Neither of which has any effect on the ape-like man.

  He paws at them with his big meaty hands, groping, fondling, caressing.

  The grunts and groans he makes as he molests the girls are a sick mixture of childlike glee and the sad, sadistic murmurs of an impotent old man.

  Michael’s stomach lurches and he throws up in his gag and begins to choke.

  If the cruel creature hears Michael choking he gives no indication, but he stops when there’s a loud knock at the door, hesitating a moment before beginning to lumber over toward it.

  —Git your ass in here, you fuckin’ faggot, he says as he opens the door. Boy have I got a surprise for you.

  He lopes back a little and to the side, and an extremely tall, thin young man enters the room.

  At least six-six, he has to duck beneath the door frame.

  Long, straight, dirty blond hair. Long, bony fingers. Severe features. Prominent nose. Jutting chin at the end of a razor-sharp jawline.

  A wicked delight creeps into his eyes and a lascivious smile wriggles across his lips as he sees Meleah, Nancy, and Michael.

  —Candlelight makes it kinda romantic, he says.

  Michael has his choking under control, his throat burning from where he swallowed the bile and vomit back down.

  —You didn’t tell me you got two girls, he says.

  —’Cause you got no interest in girls, the ape responds.

  —Maybe not to fuck, but to eat. I prefer eating girls. And these look young and tender.

  —Well, anyway, the ape man says, they’re mine. I’m gonna eat one and keep one to fuck.

  Michael’s heart drops to pound in his unsettled stomach.

  He looks over at Meleah, his helpless, enraged eyes locking onto hers. She looks so scared, so sick and frightened.

  Michael quickly changes his expression to one of sympathy and reassurance, though it feels false and futile to do it.

  —Which for which? the skinny man asks.

  —Really want to keep the brown-haired beauty, but I’m sorta scared to eat the blond bitch. She’s kinda skeevy looking, ain’t she? Keep her to fuck—I can suit up when I’m havin’ my fun with her. Got no rubber to protect my belly if I eat her, though. But it’s a shame . . . that brown-eyed bitch is fine as fuck. Look at that son of a bitch, would you? Even a fudge packer like yourself has to see what I mean.

  The fat, disgusting baboon is talking about his daughter, the one young woman in all the world who would always be his little girl. Talking about all of them in ways no human beings should ever talk or be talked about.

  —How the hell’d you get all three of them off the road and up here?

  —Came up here of their own accord, he says. Didn’t have to do a damn . . .

  Seeming to lose interest with the fat man’s prattle, the tall man walks over to examine Michael more closely.

  Pulling out a penlight, he inspects every inch of the man’s nude body.

  —Smells like puke, he says.

  Michael has never been naked in front of another man before, and to have them not only looking at but inspecting him makes him feel more exposed, more vulnerable, more truly nude than at any other time in his entire life.

  —Do we got a deal? the squat man asks, coming up behind him.

  —How much for the man and one of the girls?

  —Throw in the generator and you can have half a girl.

  They’re talking about rape and murder and cannibali
sm in such a casual, matter-of-fact way, it’s the most surreal conversation he’s ever heard.

  How else would people like them talk about it?

  Is this really happening?

  Yes it is, and for you and your daughter and that poor child you thought you saved, this is the way the world ends.

  He can see no way out of this. No help. No hope.

  Meleah would’ve been better off with the Deacon. Nancy was doing better where she was. All you’ve done is deliver them into torture and an unimaginably horrific short life before certain death.

  I can’t have. This can’t be happening. Wake up. Wake the fuck up.

  You’re awake. This is your reality now—and the reality of your daughter and the damaged girl you got to help you.

  —Tol’ you, the generator’s not an option, the tall skinny man says.

  —Okay then. No deal. Second thought, think I’ll just keep the man too. Wait ’til I can get a better deal or just eat him too.

  —Wait a minute now . . . Don’t be like that. We always deal. Remember that plump brown thing I found you a few weeks back.

  —I paid you plenty for that and it wasn’t right no way. Felt funny when I fucked her and tasted funny when I ate her.

  —I had no way of knowing that. It was a good faith deal. Tell you what . . . I’ll refund you for the plumper and pay what you want for the man and I’ll forget all about the girls. Deal?

  —I don’t know.

  —Come on man.

  —Got my heart set on that generator now.

  —Fuck man. Okay. The generator for the man and half a girl.

  —No. The price we agreed on plus the generator.

  —Shit. Okay. Wait ’til I have something you really want.

  The fat man spits on his huge hand and extends it. The skinny man repeats the same action and they shake.

  The tall, thin man wastes no time taking possession of his new purchase, and within minutes he is wheeling Michael out on the hand truck. Michael’s too thin, too pale naked body lying at an incline, being snatched and jerked as it moves across the room.

  Nancy is jerking against her chains, yelling at the men.

  Meleah is crying, her big brown eyes the most sad and frightened he’s ever seen them.